


Thief in the Garden

by Nifflers_and_Crookshanks



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Dol Amroth, Eomer - Freeform, Eomer King, Eomer x Lothiriel, F/M, Gondor, J.R.R Tolkien - Freeform, Lothiriel - Freeform, Rohan, Tolkien, Tolkien Legendarium, the lord of the rings - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-06
Updated: 2017-10-06
Packaged: 2019-01-09 16:14:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12280014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nifflers_and_Crookshanks/pseuds/Nifflers_and_Crookshanks
Summary: A year after Sauron’s defeat Éomer King meets the Princess of Dol Amroth on a sunny March morning, in a garden by the sea.





	Thief in the Garden

_March, 3020 T.A_

Éomer knew all there was to know about great green pastures, rolling hills and rugged tundra plains, but little of white rock cliffs, beaches of white-gold sands or blue-green waves and ocean tides. The strange salt air disturbed him above all things, it’s source blindingly visible from the highest point of Dol Amroth where the Prince of Dor-en-Ernil had his house. The sun was high in the sky, and it gleamed off the foam capped waves and made it unbearable for him to look at it for very long, his first true glimpse of the ocean. Already he felt the urge to be free of the salt in the air and the crashing of the waves onto the shore, the glare from the sea and the cry of gulls, but continued through the welcomes and greetings with calm politeness, though inside his mind was far, far away.

Once fully welcomed by what seemed like a representative from every landowning family in the province, the king and his men retired to their chambers, wearied and disorientated. Many had only heard rumour of the ocean, and having never dreamt to see it were more than a little in need of some recovery time. Éowyn seemed to him the only one content with all she saw, which he supposed was the most important thing.

“Lord Imrahil mentioned he had word from Faramir that they believe they shall arrive sometime before nightfall,” His sister said idly, eyes sweeping his rooms as they must have done her own, “If I am not about when they arrive do wake me,” she asked, but Éomer suspected she would not sleep a wink. All she did these days was write letters to her soon-to-be betrothed. After a long silence she then added, “if you can not find rest in sleep I hear you ought to take a turn about the gardens, they are famed for their beauty,”

Éomer did not have high expectations for a garden in Gondor, no matter how far South it was or how well maintained it was said to be, Minas Tirith had been a city of stone, where few living things lived or grew, before the new King Elessar had called upon his friends across the free peoples of Middle Earth to bring life to it again. Without such specialised efforts, it would still be as cheerless as ever, and what little he had seen of Dol Amroth so far meant that he could already establish that the two cities were built of a similar material, perhaps not mined from the same quarry but the white stone had the same cool aura that, or at least it seemed to his eyes, turned sunlight grey. He was, however, very much mistaken.

Terraces beyond terraces stretched out across the hill before him, teaming with life, and as he entered the great green sea he was enveloped by the familiar scent of grass and sunlight. This was not a garden, this was a field. Granted, a field that was full of trees and hedges, rose bushes and herb plants, and there was no sound of wind whistling through grass, just the sea and the delicate tinkling sound of far off fountains and ponds, but a garden implied something small and controlled. This was vast and expansive, a place Éomer could lose himself in. And so he did.

Statues and busts ranged about the place, beautifully designed captured stills of ancient heroes from the elvish songs Éomer knew of only vaguely, the various and illustrious maiar that made up the world, and, revered above all others, images of the valar evolved into shrines, littered with offerings of flowers, berries, still burning oil lamps, spices and herbs strewn at their feet, even a few scrolls of poetry from some he thought they could entertain immortals with their witty lines, all of which appeared equally recent no matter how deep he went into the garden. Then, at last he came to a stone wall.

  
The wall was covered in ivy and brambles, obviously in disrepair compared to the rest of the place, and a lonely alcove where a bust of Yavanna rested, forgotten and surrounded by her children of the earth. Beside the alcove the wall behind the ivy was discoloured, a faded wood rather than pale stone, and with a slight shove it gave way, revealing an orchard through the web of green vines and purple flower-like weeds. Éomer was not certain what sort of curiosity compelled him to enter the orchard, he only thanked Béma for him doing so, if he had not his fate would have been very different, he was sure of it, had he not moved the vines aside with a steady hand under the watchful gaze of a grey dove that sat twittering above the archway.

The trees within yielded fruit strange to Éomer’s eyes, no apples were there here, but fruits of bright colours, ranging from deep crimson to bright yellow to lush green, some as round as wheels on a cart, others oval and some few closer resembled fat carrots on trees than his idea of what ‘fruit’ entailed. Different trees were segregated, however, between tall hedges, they themselves bore bramble berries and other assorted things, and distributed beside the hedges were occasional benches and seats, fountains or statues, there was even a small maze, but one grown short, so that once it had been intended for a child’s use. He must have walked for half an hour, staring in wonder at what seem to him something closer to the blessed realm than a Gondorian prince’s abode, before coming to the opposite edge of the garden to the sheer cliffs that dropped off into the sea, where the trees stopped and shining white steps began, leading up to what he could only assume was part of the Lord’s household chambers, for they were grand and far set from the guest’s quarters.

For a fleeting moment the young king considered whether or not he was intruding on his host’s privacy, not behaviour expected of a ruler of a country, but thought nothing of it. This place was beautiful, yes, but in clear need of a gardener’s care, if it was a part of Lord Imrahil’s private gardens it was not visited very often. Yet, as he reached out to brush his thumb over the skin of a particularly strange looking produce, one Éomer was convinced he had seen before, there was a loud cry from behind him, and he turned to the steps once more.

Though they were empty before, the entire building seemingly devoid of life, now there stood a woman, tall and proud she seemed to him, with a noble face and a storm in her eyes. Thus Éomer-King first saw Lothíriel of Dol Amroth, though he knew her not.

“I’ll have you know this garden and orchard are under the care of the lady of the house, it is her will that none enter,” She said in a voice that made him believe that should she order the moon to stop waning and the sun to stop setting she would be obeyed.

“But you look not to be the lady of the house, madam,” Éomer answered, well aware that his host’s sister ran the household, a mature woman made older by grief and sobriety, and this was clearly not her, “Who might you be if none are permitted to be in this place? Are you obeying the will of her ladyship?” He queried. 

”Her instructions have brought me here,” Her eyes had flashed at his remark, dark eyebrows arching even more, “and it is I that am challenging you,” she reasserted, chin lifting a little higher. How could one be so conscious of their own dignity in her position? He seemed to her a queen in peasants clothes, or rather simple layers of unembellished dove grey silk, her presence unable to be contained by mortal form.

“How do you not know that it is the same for I?” The lady’s eyes narrowed, but Éomer espied a flash of teeth also, and was not daunted. She took a while to reply, scrutinising every detail of his personage as she prepared her rebuttal.

“Because I have never seen you before and I make a point to know everybody in this house,” She told him at last, which only made him wonder even more. Who was she to recognise members of the household on sight? Not a well dressed servant, that was for sure, though the lack of ornamentation halted him from calling her a noble woman, “You are clearly one of the arrived Rohirrim,” She added when he made no response, “but I can not decipher what rank you hold within the company,” Certainly a noblewoman then, always concerned about rank.

“And you, lady, are clearly a woman of Gondor, but I can not tell what rank you hold within society,” He teased, and her other eyebrow joined the other. Clearly one of Gondor, with hair darker than night and limbs as long as tree boughs, but exceptionally pale, like starlight was trapped beneath her skin, if this was a feature of the people of Gondor he certainly had never seen such a striking example, or expected someone so pale so far South. Wisened men such as King Elessar and Gandalf would say that she was one that the blood of Numénor flowed true in, alike to Faramir, but Legolas and those of the Eldar would have sensed the hint of elvish _fëa_ that lasted still in the line of the Prince’s of Dol Amroth.

“You still have not justified your presence here, explain yourself or I shall call the guards,” She insisted, unamused by his gentle mocking.

”You won’t,” Éomer declared immediately, though he had never been a gambling man.

“And why not?” She demanded, clearly unused to her threats being dismissed to easily.

”If you were going to do so you would not have waited so long, you know I am no danger to you,” He asserted, though in truth he did not have a clear idea of what a woman would perceive as a threat to personally safety, but knew that he would see a plainly dressed man who did not wear a sword or carry a knife openly as no great peril, especially if he was in his own city, in the comfort of his own home. The lady before him was clearly very comfortable in asserting authority in this place, so if it was not her home she still would spend much time here and be familiar with her surroundings, surely she did not fear for her wellbeing?

“Though you have not convinced me that you are not a thief, I never pretended you were of any threat,” She answered with an air of superiority.

”Well then, shall my word attesting to my profession as a simple soldier and not a fruit thief aid such matters?“

“What reason have I to trust in your word alone, especially now that you have proven yourself a liar, your clothes are simple but the fabric is good quality and hard to come by in these parts, and I know you to be one of Rohan, and therefore either a high ranking soldier or nobleman from the new king’s party,” She was smart, then, but Éomer had already suspected as much, there was a light in her strange eyes that suggested great intellect.

“What if I told you that the men of Rohan do not lie?”

“All men lie, flaxen haired or raven,” The lady argued, “Must I ask again what your business here is?”

“In truth? I was taking a turn about the gardens and found an old door hidden by vines, I walked through it and now seem to be trespassing on the good Lady Irviniel’s property, will you call the guards?” He queried, feigning an innocence that he could see irritated her.

”No,” She resigned, defeated,“But do not venture far from places you are familiar with, it is easy to get lost in this house,”

“I am dismissed then?”

“Yes, now leave before I change my mind,” Her eyes had flashed at his insolence, but he could see she was also suppressing a slight smile on her plump lips.

* * *

Faramir arrived with the party from Minas Tirith in the late afternoon, as expected, and a great feast followed, laughter bouncing off the stone walls as candles flickered and music played. Éomer did not think Dol Amroth so different from Rohan at that moment, surrounded by merriment and mirth as he had not been since the end of the war, and was content to see his sister so happy. The following night would be the official Gondorian betrothal ceremony, though Éomer had announced it to his own people seven months prior, and many customs and rights were needed to be performed the following day to ensure the couple be blessed, and afterwards a short stay was needed so that various nobles who could not attend the wedding in Minas Tirith a year from the day might visit and pay their respects to the Steward and Prince of Ithilien, and his future bride.

Éomer was only slightly unhappy regarding how Gondor-centric his sister’s wedding plans were, though it could not be helped. Though she was now the princess of the Mark, Rohan would have no chance to truly farewell it’s White Lady, it still had much to recover form the years of strife and struggle, though it had been a full year since the fighting had ceased. Still, Gondor was to be his sisters new home, and now he was under the roof of the only kin that remained to his future brother, he had no reason to complain. All he had to do now was to relax and enjoy the feast, not something easily done when he was at the high table and the focus of much attention.

The Lord Imrahil was at the centre of the table, to his right sat Faramir, and beyond him the two eldest princes of Dol Amroth, and to Imrahil’s left Éowyn, and beside her Éomer sat. It was overall a warm and familial affair, though the young king found conversation stilted to his left, where Imrahil’s sister and the lady of the house sat. If she had seemed more open to conversation perhaps he may have mentioned his accidental trespass into her garden, but the Lady Irviniel looked, at least in his eyes, to be one of the severest persons Éomer had ever come across. She was fair and strong, with a mind of steel, that was obvious, but grief cloaked her person like shadows cloak the night, her hair was entirely covered by a veil long and dark and she was garbed in a rich black fabric as though she were in mourning.

“I must thank you for these festivities, my lady, and for you generosity in hosting my people in your halls,” He said at last, the first time he had ever addressed her and it was half way through the feast. But, despite how silent he had been previously, Irviniel responded with a pale smile.

“I am afraid you are mistaken, your majesty, I fear my position as lady of the house is quiet redundant in this regard, it is my niece, my lord’s daughter, that you are to thank, I can accept no credit,” She dismissed his politeness, lifting her cup in a gesture to a near table. There sat a woman with skin paler than the sea foam on the surf, and hair darker than the bramble berries climbing up the walls of the garden she haunted, but gone was her messy bun, pale lips and grey dress. The lady before him had lips redder than the morning dawn, hair perfectly styled and coiled into dark glossy curls that fell to her waist, a blue dress that brought out her eyes and her mere posture declared her name and title. Lady Lothíriel, princess of Dol Amroth and daughter of Imrahil of Dor-en-Ernil.

She must have felt his gaze on her, for she turned from her conversation with the man to her right and met his eyes with her own, and if she was startled by his identity she kept her dignity and did not show it, and instead maintained her bold attitude from their previous meeting by not averting her eyes, even when he nodded in respect. And then, a great peel of laughter drew her attention away from him and back to her table, and Éomer would have sworn he felt a longing for her eyes on him even then.

When she and the youngest of her brothers approached the high table to greet their new sister, as they had taken to calling Éowyn, Lothíriel politely greeted Éomer, but made no allusion to the incident in the garden until a week later when she caught him alone, in a garden he was allowed to be in.

**Author's Note:**

> I just wanted to give a new spin on Éomer and Lothíriel’s first meeting, something different but nonetheless heavily inspired by all the fantastic fanfics I have read about these two out there. Feedback is BEGGED FOR.


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